Christopher Schroeder

Category: community and culture

  • Neither Silly Nor Smart

    Neither Silly Nor Smart

    I expected to enjoy The End of Oak Street, as credible critics suggested I would, more than I did.

    This movie, which is written and directed by David Robert Mitchell, tells the story of a suburban housewife, and aspiring novelist, named Denise (Anne Hathaway) and her disintegrating marriage to Greg (Ewan McGregor) as their neighborhood is teleported to prehistoric times. Denise must save her children Audrey (Maisy Stella) and Brian (Christian Convery) and their acquaintance Jeannette (Jordan Alexa Davis) by jumping into a shimmering, and blinking, wormhole blob that returns them to their present where she warns, and saves, her husband and neighbors.

    I like others was intrigued by the Amblin allusions, such as the suburban adventure and physical effects that appeal to kids and grownups. These were supplemented with thriller conventions more associated with Mitchell, and make me wonder whether the movie was more dystopian than I initially believed.

    The effort is an inconsistent tone that for me highlighted awkward performances and stilted scenes. As a result, it wasn’t the “refreshingly, doesn’t care,” and fun, movie that some, such as NPR Pop Cultural Happy Hour host Linda Holmes and her guests, claim it is.

    Holmes, who in her accompanying newsletter surveys Mitchell’s previous efforts, argues that he and his cinematographer Mike Gioulakis use experimental techniques without compromising control. As a result, she believes believes that this hybrid action-adventure horror movie, which relies upon a simple structure, a satisfying theme, and a short running time, is intentionally “raucous and silly” with “over-the-top” moments as an entertaining experience that viewers deserve.

    I’m unsure how to reconcile this analysis, which seems plausible and persuasive, with the mindless summer entertainment, and more fun in a group, conclusion. Does fun need the neutralization of perception and reflection? What makes this movie any different from other mindless entertainment with which we’re amusing ourselves to death?

    The problem isn’t a lack of potential. For example, Denise recounts her experience in a replacement manuscript — her previous one is lost in a basement flood — that is published as a book, and is presumably why her family seems wealthier at the end than they were in the beginning, which raises questions about 1980s intersectionality that are unacknowledged.

    The ending in contrast does acknowledge a different problem, and potential. The military has secured Denise’s neighborhood, scientists are investigating wormholes, and Denise’s family hosts a barbecue with Jeannette’s parents and two versions of her.

    The second Jeannette, which is presumably a cloned version, is required, or resolved, by the plot. Denise after leaping into the wormhole and returning to their present orders a pizza that Greg delivers — he had been delivering pizzas to Denise’s dismay after he was fired from Chrysler, and her kids and she witnessed his death by dinosaurs in the prehistoric world — and apparently also warns Jeannette’s parents, who seemingly escape with her.

    Any residual escapist entertainment evaporated for me the moment two Jeannettes appeared at the barbecue. They however and the others quickly disappear with the end of the movie, which concludes with even more unasked questions.

    I suppose that Jeanette’s parents couldn’t be convinced, especially in such a short span of time, to leave her behind. I also suppose that Greg didn’t even consider whether to get the rest of his family because he was delivering pizzas without them, and wasn’t told he was escaping an imminent tragedy.

    I enjoy entertainment, and even escapism, as much as anyone. I just resent any time such experiences encourage me to ignore questions, and require me to sacrifice skepticism and relinquish reason, especially while aspiring to be something more substantial.

  • Things That Should Be Said

    Things That Should Be Said

    I was more excited about getting to read Elizabeth Strout’s latest novel The Things We Never Say than I am about having read it.

    I tend to like Strout’s novels more than I expect, so I thought that this one, and especially its fifty-seven-year-old high school history teacher protagonist named Artie, would be even better. Artie, like so many of us, is beset by a loneliness that as its epigraph attests comes from his alienation in the midst of others.

    Artie and his wife of many years Evie are struggling with the emotional aftermath of their son Rob’s car crash that killed his girlfriend. Artie discovers that his initial response, which is suicide, isn’t as appealing after he falls into the water while stepping into his sailboat, and that he actually has a desire to live, which he spends the rest of the novel trying to do.

    Other critics praise have praised this novel for many reasons, including this memorable protagonist and its cast of characters and its spare yet sharp style.

    I also admired it for its political and personal timeliness. Loneliness if social media are any indication besets the best of us, and the Trump administration antics can alienate all of us, and in that offer us some common ground.

    I additionally appreciated the intersection of character and plot, and especially Artie’s connection with his son Rob, whose circumstances push them closer and later pull them apart. One contributing cause is Evie’s secret that is exposed yet never confronted, which sadly seems so familiar.

    I could recognize the potential in other choices, such as a shifting POV that promises an unprovided intimacy. That and others reinforce the loneliness theme, and combine for a rhetorically withheld catharsis that cleverly compelled me to keep reading and unfortunately was ultimately unsatisfying.

    This condition can be seen in Artie, whose experiences that he both can and cannot change illustrate the excruciating effect of loneliness around others. His motivation however is never quite clear.

    Is Artie driven by his relative poor childhood or his current political outrage or even a righteous indignation over political and personal circumstances combined with an unavoidable awareness of his relative privilege? The answer can never be found in the accumulation of too many tragedies, one after another until the end.

    I respect Strout’s effort, and her commitment to and confidence in this project. I just believe that the book would have been better served with at least another draft.

    The loss is all that this book could but doesn’t say, which is even more lamentable in light of its final paragraphs and our current circumstances.

  • Needs a North Star

    Needs a North Star

    I’m surprised that I didn’t like Northern Lights (2023) more than I did.

    This streaming series, which is an adaptation of a play by Stephen Jones, tells the story of two grieving strangers Áine (Elva Trill) and Lloyd (Jones) who connect through their tragedies. Áine is standing in the rain on a bridge outside Lloyd’s apartment after his estranged girlfriend Denise (Jennifer Heylen) asked him to leave their home in the emotional aftermath of their newborn’s sudden death.

    This bridge is where Áine’s boyfriend Seán (Jay Duffy) jumped to his death. It’s also where Lloyd had spoken to him just before he jumped and where Denise previously had been talking to him, and where Lloyd saw them from his window when Denise lied about why she was late to dinner he had prepared.

    I typically like adapted plays perhaps because these stories seem more substantial. However, I thought this story, which might have worked as a two-hander tragicomic play, had been stretched too far across six episodes and almost 300 minutes, and past the point of ripping and tearing.

    I also was skeptical about the coincidences, especially in the Dublin setting. Greater Dublin, which is visually appealing, reportedly includes two million people across 2,500 miles. That though doesn’t prevent these characters from meeting on the same bridge at similar times.

    I additionally couldn’t overlook the representation of The Catcher in the Rye. This 1951 novel by J. D. Salinger, which also features a grieving narrator, gets its title from its narrator’s misunderstanding of a poem, which reinforces his inability to manage, or even recognize, the grief that alienates him from everyone, contributes to his emotional breakdown, and explains its mental health setting.

    In contrast, Áine and Lloyd and even Denise ostensibly confront their grief and reconnect with their loved ones. This contrast however is never acknowledged, and seems unclear, even though it could have contributed in more than one way to this story.

    These prevented me from connecting with this story, which might work on a stage somewhere but doesn’t do so on a smaller screen across six episodes for five hours.